


Quiet.

by orphan_account



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Trans Junkrat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-24 11:06:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7505926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It begins, of all ways, quietly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quiet.

**Author's Note:**

> . let me know of any errors / areas you think i could improve!  
> . junkrat written from my own trans Experience(Tm) i cope quite crudely with it myself so. if u don't wanna see him laugh about his tits heres your warning

Life is rarely ever quiet for them.  
And how could it be? They're world known criminals for Christ's sake, each with their own bodycount of thousands above their heads, the money being offered for simple information on them millions higher. A loud, explosives-fixated freak and a man easy to mistake with a beast in both stature and strength don't live quietly.  
You didn't come from the Outback quietly. You survived in the Outback loudly, kicking, clawing and screaming. It's all or nothing, and it applied in every area of life when you grew up in such a place.

But today, something is off, because it's quiet. The midday sun is flitting through the stained roof of the abandoned warehouse the two found themselves crashing in after last night's escapade (ten confirmed dead, more injured, the news droned.) Yawn.

Roadhog's awake, fiddling with the buttons on a tiny, older-than-tits barely functional TV set the currently sleeping Junkrat had found in their makeshift hideout the night before. He'd fixed it up to a point, though the picture was still mostly static, just to be aware of "what kinda mess we made!"  
Not their biggest, then, least nowhere near fatality wise. Roadhog grunted at the screen, removing his hand from the knobs lest he break something and have to hear Junkrat talk about the mechanics of 1900s TVs again.  
He enjoyed Junkrat talking about some things. That was not one of them.

He'd be lying if he told himself - or, anyone - that he didn't enjoy killing, he supposed. It wasn't in the bodycount, or the damage for him, though. It was the rush of the moment, of a neck breaking underneath your heels, possessing such enormous strength that allowed him to be able to heal or hurt. Holding someone's life in your hands was a feeling he'd never tire of - the rush, the power, the satisfaction.  
Junkrat just thought he was kinky, though.

Junkrat was the one who enjoyed killing for the damage - actively tried for high bodycounts like they were arcade scores, revelled in the destruction, pain and the death caused for weeks afterwards, newspaper cuttings of buildings he'd devastated filled a scrapbook that he owned, and "didja see that-!" was often a mantra Roadhog would fall into uneasy sleep to.  
But for now, Roadhog thought, it was just quiet.

Junkrat woke, stretched, clicked. He was either awake straight away or not at all, his energy comparable to that of a bomb blast but far more sporadic. He threw his legs over the pile of animal feed he'd found sleep upon the night before, almost smacking Roadhog in the face with the end of his right thigh as he did so.  
"G'morning!" Junkrat cackled out, or it sounded like one - most of what he said sounded like more than a laugh than proper speech.  
"It's the afternoon." Roadhog grunted in reply.  
"Yeah, yeah," Junkrat waved his hand, dismissing the arbitrary information. "Hand me my hand, yeah?" he snorted at his own phrasing.  
Roadhog sighed, passed the closely stored prosthetics to the younger man, helping him with his leg first, then his arm. With this, Junkrat hopped down and sat next to Roadhog, taking up as much space as he could - legs spread out, arms behind his head, which rests upon Roadhog's right elbow - shirtless and sweaty, shorts only, no binder today - not in this heat, Christ.  
"Didja see us?" Junkrat asked excitedly, gesturing wildly towards the tiny TV set that lay on Roadhog's other side.  
Roadhog grunted in acknowledgement.  
"Nothing special."  
"Bugger," Junkrat hisses, his fingers already moved away from behind his head to fiddle with each-other. "Thought we'd done some right damage."  
"Just saw bodycount," Roadhog huffed "so we coulda. Dunno."  
"That's more fuckin' like it!" Junkrat yelped, punching the air with a metal fist. Roadhog snorted at the gesture, staring at a spot on the floor, the only sound in the world the distant one of Junkrat's babbling.

They'd grown comfortably close around each other - slowly, and unwillingly on both ends at first at first. Despite Junkrat's excitable, 'adventurous' nature, and his head on attitude, Roadhog wasn't exactly hired in a good situation, and district was immediately bred.  
Junkrat refused to believe the other man didn't want to poison him for at least six months.  
In his defence, Roadhog was tempted. Multiple times.  
But a few 'you owe me's,' and late night drunk conversations later, along with their natural flow and sync on jobs, or shit they did for fun, birthed slow trust, which formed into firstly rickety, but solidifying friendship, holding each other dearer to one another than was ever (vocally, at least) admitted.

Roadhog had zoned out, so when Junkrat clicked his fingers in his face he swiped them away, still in a daze.  
"Ya zoned." the younger man informed him.  
Roadhog grunted.  
"It's awful quiet today, yeah?" Junkrat asked him. "Well, s'pose anythings quiet after you blow up three buildings," he sniggered into his hands. "Seems quiet, I mean. Y'kno? Like, twenty suits talkin' at once wouldn't blow my ears off after that." Roadhog grunts again, scooping Junkrat up with one arm and putting him in his lap. They're physically affectionate with one another, more so from not knowing not to be - both grown up alone, unsure, wanting.

"Ahhh," Junkrat says, laughing, then, "what's the idea."  
"Quiet day." Roadhog tells him. He's right - Junkrat's chatter is the only sound in this part of the world, radiation too extreme for the survival of much else. Days that are quiet like this make him pensive, nostalgic, appreciative of what he has and not what he had - make him open up, just slightly. He's glad he has Junkrat.  
"Glad I've got ya," Junkrat tells the larger man. "All of me, tits and all," he snorted out, but Roadhog knows it's one of Junkrat's few sensitive subjects.  
"'Course. Always, you know." he said, back to looking at a piece of dirt on the ground.  
"Can I," and then "uhm."  
It's not like Junkrat to be quiet, and Roadhog nudges him with the arm the smaller man isn't lying on.  
"I wanna kiss you." Junkrat admits, hand in his mouth. "I mean, if you don't mind, that I'm a bloke, too, see, and you actually see me as a bloke too, and have understood, and I know we've been mates a long time, so, I don't wanna, make it weird, yeah? Or not, weird, not like some romantic shit, haha, but also, kinda like that. Uhh," he stops, "definitely like that."  
Everything is quiet as Roadhog removed his mask without answering - he's blind in his right eye, making his field work even more impressive, sports an overbite and more scars than he could count. They're quiet as they kiss, and they're quiet until Junkrat breaks it with the quietest, sweetest noise Roadhog has ever heard come from him. A low laugh, somehow still young round the edges.  
"I can't believe," he laughs, "I fell in love with you."

Roadhog grunts in agreement.


End file.
